


The Moon, Stars, and Sun

by RiskPig



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle - Freeform, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiskPig/pseuds/RiskPig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hoping to escape her impending marriage, Belle makes a deal with a forest spirit. RSS 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moon, Stars, and Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winterelf86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterelf86/gifts).



> To my giftee, rumplegasm! It was fun being your Secret Santa, and I hope you enjoy the fic! <3

Once upon a time, there lived a knight. Not handsome, or very courageous. But he possessed the strength of twenty men, and he won many battles for his king. Pleased by his servant, the king granted a castle, coffers of gold, and the greatest gift a knight rarely receives: retirement.

And so the knight, allowing himself to be simply called Maurice in his advanced age, had married. Colette, his bride’s name, was a collector of books. The beauty (for who else could a knight wed, but a beauty?) longed for knowledge and adventure, all garnered from her dearest books. Colette’s greatest desire, however, one cannot receive from the dry pages.

A child.

And so a daughter was born, with all the dignity of a noble’s daughter. The trumpets sounded, and the family’s patron fairy was summoned to deliver the usual blessings: beauty, grace, and charm.

But that was not enough for Colette. She knew a woman must be equipped with more than a pretty face. But at a terrible price. Much in the way of things, in order to give, something must be taken. Even the highest heavens, and the deepest hells, exist on such a balance. As Colette held the babe, pink and perfect, she made a wish with her last breath.

“All my life, I have collected wisdom, ancient and new. Your father’s fairy gave you beauty, but with all your mother’s love and life, I give you all my wisdom.”

And then she died, smiling.

The entire province mourned their Lady. Save for one. From birth, Maurice had never known pain. His strength made him invulnerable to blows, scratches, poisons, fevers, and all sorts of nastiness. But for the first time in his life, he felt a powerful grip take hold of his heart, ripping the little thing right down the middle; the poor man was broken.

Maurice could not let that stand. His people needed him. His daughter needed him. They lost their Lady, and how could the good people continue if they lost their powerful Knight?

And so he used all of his strength - strained every last muscle, forcing every last drop of will - to hold the pain of his broken heart at bay.

Years passed, and his child flourished. As promised by the fairy, the girl blossomed into a beautiful young woman, bearing the grace and charm suiting a princess. Her father called her his Little Beauty, and the people marked her as Belle.

On the surface was a lovely woman, with long brown hair, and eyes bluer than the calmest sea, but underneath she was so much more.

Belle spent her days in the library, her fingers lovingly turning each page as she lost herself in tales of lonesome beasts, tricky imps, and majestic wizards. Her mother’s final wish, imbued with great magic, bestowed a lifetime of wisdom, and as Belle grew, so did her mind, upon the foundation of her mother’s.

The peerage and peasants regaled each other in her keen and wit, but were puzzled that such a blessed creature would willingly lock herself in a room, day in, and day out. Such words reached the ears of her father, and he grew concerned.

“Books are all well and good,” he thought. “But shouldn’t a young lady consider companionship? Or even love?”

With a wave of his arm, and a boom in his voice, he ordered his couriers to gather and beseech the presence of any bachelor seeking his Little Beauty’s hand. By the end of a fortnight, ninety-nine men amassed in the castle hall, eagerly awaiting audience with the one they hoped to claim as their bride.

And wait, they did. For hours they stood, watching a grand staircase, hoping to spot her. Belle sought refuge in her library, hiding behind towers of books, plotting for a way out of her father’s plans. The woman was appalled by her father - how dare he? Her fate was her own, and no one decided but she!

Her father knocked on the library door, the loud beats shaking the walls, disturbing the books. As Belle watched the tomes teeter on the shelves, a scheme formed in her mind. Satisfied, she emerged from her sanctuary, and allowed her father to escort her to the hall. All stared, pleased that word of her beauty was not exaggerated.

Belle surveyed the room, her surface serene, and spoke to her suitors.

“At my side is my father, Sir Maurice. You have heard of him, I’m sure.”

All nodded.

“He was born with the strength of twenty men, and has remained unchallenged. I cannot leave his home for that of a lesser man. I will marry the one that can overcome him in a feat of strength.”

The suitors turned to each other, their mutters filling the room with a hum, not unlike that of a wasp nest. Was the girl mad? they asked. No one could accomplish such a feat! Surely it would be impossible.

Deterred, as Belle hoped, the suitors turned away, and promptly left the castle, their noses high, but spirits low. Only one stayed behind. He was young, handsome (with dark eyes, and darker hair), and very bold.

“I am Sir Gaston,” said the suitor, resplendent in silver armor, “troll-fighter, and beast-killer. And it would be an honor to challenge you, good sir.”

Maurice never told his Little Beauty, or anyone, about his broken heart, or how he spent every waking moment defending himself against the pain. His desire for his daughter’s happiness kept him silent as he accepted the challenge. He ordered for a table, two chairs, and two beers.

The game was simple. Placing their elbows on the table, one man takes the other’s hand. First one to yield, loses. Maurice could feel his daughter watching him, and remembered her words.

_“I cannot leave his home for that of a lesser man.”_

He felt more than ready to lose, but not at the cost of disappointing his only love left in this world, no. No, it was only right that he _barely_ lose.

And so, as he braced his palm against Sir Gaston’s, he recalled just a portion of his old strength. With each push and pull, Sir Gaston grew more and more determined to win, his face beaded with sweat, but Maurice held on until he was soaked with his own perspiration, little droplets raining down both men’s cheeks.

As sweat slid down the side of Maurice’s face, a single tear fell from his eye, unnoticed. And with that one sorrowful drop, the old knight finally gave in.

The slam of Maurice’s heavy hand falling back against the table startled everyone. The servants froze, mouths open. Belle, who had been biting her thumb to hide her smile, grew pale, her heart sinking from her chest to her stomach. Her scheme had failed, and now had no choice but to marry.

Maurice stood from his chair, breathing heavily, blowing air from his nostrils not unlike a bull. For a moment, Gaston was sure he had angered the old man, but then he was pulled into a tight embrace, and the word “son” whispered to his ear.

The people rejoiced, chanting the name of their new lord, and gossiped about the wedding plans - a day considered with great anticipation.

At dinner the very night of Gaston’s victory, Maurice asked the very question that had been on Belle’s mind.

“How soon may the wedding take place?”

It was Gaston who answered. “Why, as soon as the preparations allow, I’m sure.”

 _As soon as the preparations allow._ Belle still did not wish to marry him, but needed time to concoct a new scheme. And so, ever wise, she bought herself the time.

“Father?” she asked, eyes downcast, and with a little smile. “I am glad to marry someone as strong, if not stronger, than my father. But I’m afraid I cannot marry him unless I am as beautiful as my mother.”

“But, my child,” said Maurice. “You are plenty-”

“Please. I ask that I have a special gown made. I want a gown made of the palest, brightest silk;  the color of the full moon.”

The days turned into weeks and Belle locked herself away in her library, reading all the laws of the land, trying to come up with a loophole she might have overlooked. But then the dreaded day came, the gown finally ready.

The seamstress, worn and tired from her hard work, helped Belle try on the dress before falling asleep on a chaise lounge. The Little Beauty gazed at herself in the mirror, and was taken by the truly marvelous dress. Pale silk, not quite white, blue, or silver, wrapped around her, and cast her in a heavenly glow.

And then she wept.

On her knees, the bride sobbed and sighed, disappointed with her failure. In all her readings, she could not think of a way out of her impending marriage. She cried and cried until the sun had set, her room’s fire died, and the seamstress’s snores settled into gentle snoozes.

When the world turned dark and cold, the window flew open, and Belle was overtaken by a strong gust of wind, smelling of earth and pine. And a hint of, oddly, cinnamon.

Belle cleared dust from her eyes, and made to close the window, but a whisper and a tingle held her fast.

_“Come to me. Come to me.”_

Beyond the palace was the Dark Forest, wild, dense, and more ancient than any of her books. None dared venture through there after dark, for none ever made it out alive. Rumor had it that all manner of horrible beasts devoured every fool that wandered into the darkness. She looked out into the wilderness, looking for anyone, but there wasn’t a soul to be found. Only the trees.

_“Come to me. Come to me.”_

“Where are you?” she called out.

_“Come to me. Come to me.”_

“I would come, but I cannot see you!”

She searched the courtyard, and called out again, but there was still no one. Only the voice. It was not long until she was lured to the edge of the Dark Forest.

Compared to the daunting, wiry, prickly masses, she was but a blue speck; a little girl venturing too far from home. To add more to her folly, she had forgotten to change from her wedding gown.

_“Come to me.”_

How could she? Belle was just one woman against monsters. Turning around to return to the castle, the voice called out one last time.

_“Come to me.”_

Belle’s curiosity lead her outside, her desire to learn nearly spelling her doom. She had to make a choice: Go back, and certainly marry Sir Gaston, or tread the dangerous forest, and perhaps change her fate.

Not a hard puzzle for her. With a deep breath, and her shoulders pushed back, Belle did the brave thing, hoping real bravery would follow.

Shadows within shadows. Blackness within blackness. With each step, her feet dipped into the mud, and low branches pulled at her gown, snagging the delicate silk and strands of her hair. The deeper Belle wandered, the louder the little creatures chirped and chattered, and a chill bit at her fingertips.

No longer able to see the moon, the tree branches too entwined, she felt she might have made a mistake, and hoped that it wasn’t too late to turn back.

“My, my.”

A voice, like the one before, echoed around her, and the forest fell silent. Belle, rubbed her arms for warmth, and called out, hoping to finally get an answer.

“Please. Who are you?”

"Who am I? Well, that depends on you, dearie. Are you a lost lamb, aimless without your crook? Or a wild-ling, convening under the darkness, with all the forest offers? Either way, you do not belong here."

The voice was high-pitched, and foreign. A frightening giggle surrounded her, but Belle was quick to gather her wits, and found the source. Before her stood a tree, both tall and wide. She approached it, her arms waving about her, for the forest was still very black save for her gown of moonlight.

Before her fingers could touch the bark, a hand shot out from within the wood, holding her by the wrist, and the shape of a man followed.

He was an odd looking thing. Not very tall, but not too short, and draped in marvelous leather and feathers. He danced about, waving his hands, and Belle found his skin to be the most puzzling. It was not the smooth skin of a normal person. Not even hairy, like any other man. No, his flesh was made of golden, sparkling scales.

“No, no,” he said, still holding her wrist. “I know what you are. A desperate soul. And like many before, and many more after, you have come seeking my help.”

Taking back her arm, Belle stepped away, staring boldly into the face of the funny man.

“Actually,” she said, her voice only slightly wavering, “I came because you called me.”

He giggled. “That only confirms it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who other,” the words rolling off his tongue, “than a desperate soul would come to the Dark Forest? With only a whisper to guide them?”

Hoping to hide her chagrin, Belle demanded more answers.

“You still haven’t answered my question, sir. Who are you?”

He smiled with rotten teeth, and gave her a long, grand bow, his nose almost touching the dirt.

“ _Rumplestiltskin_ ,” he said. “At your service.”

Belle lifted the remains of her frayed skirt, and curtsied. “How do you do.”

Something happened then, as they looked at one another. Neither one would realize for a very long time, but a greater, more powerful magic was at work. It all started the moment Rumplestiltskin thought to himself that the girl’s eyes were a lovely shade of blue.

He stepped closely, circling about her like a golden snake, embracing her loosely.

“What ails you, child?”

“I am to be married, but I do not love my betrothed.”

He circled still, smiling. “Well, I can’t make you love him, but I could kill him for you.”

“No! I just want to be free. I want to control my own fate.”

“I cannot guarantee what you desire, but I think I have what you’re looking for.”

He waved his scaly hand, and the ground began to tremble. The trees twisted back, their shapes growing more strange and grotesque as they parted to clear the view.

Just beyond, lit by lanterns, was a stone cottage. Humble, but charming. Glass windows, a big red door, and a little bridge running over a babbling brook, leading to a well.

“This is yours, as well as free reign to roam my Dark Forest. Already furnished with the necessary trappings - a bed, a kitchen, a library, and so forth. None of my pretties will harm you, and my wicked willows and ominous oaks will leave you be.

“For a price, of course.”

Belle’s heart sank as she watched the trees form a wall once more. She should have expected as much - this was after all, the Dark Forest. None before had ever made it out alive, therefore nothing from within came without a price. But what could Belle give other than the ruined dress on her back?

“If you permit me...” Belle cleared her throat. “My father has much gold-”

Rumplestiltskin cackled, his legs kicking. “Gold? Whatever for? With my magic, I am more than capable of making my own.”

And just so, he pulled a long, strand of gorgeous gold from his sleeve. He held it delicately between his fingers, turning it to show glint and sparkle. Handing it to her, he took her by the waist, and they walked. The blackness was replaced by a gray fog, and the air grew colder.

“Everything in my forest, dearie, has a purpose. Some animals feed from the trees, others feed from others, and the trees feed from the remains. And I, this Dark One, am their caretaker. If you are to live here, you must be able to provide something.”

“What would you have me do?”

He stopped, looking square into her lovely blue eyes. He seemed to be holding his breath, and Belle waited for him to speak. No longer smiling, he spoke very softly, his voice dropping from the manic pitch to a rough growl.

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. Tonight, go home. If you return with a purpose, with a need you can fill in my forest, you may stay. I’m not asking for the stars, dearie, and I find this deal more than fair.”

Well, this was unexpected. Go home? Alive? More or less unscathed by any terrible beasties? She gazed upon his weird eyes, brown with wicked speckles, and felt a pull. The strange new magic began its work on her, masking itself as curiosity.

He fingered the tattered silk at her waist, his claws catching on the thread. She shivered - from the cold, of course.

“You have until your wedding gown is complete.”

The fog thickened, and he backed away, obscuring himself within the mist.

The world was clear once again, and she was back in her room.

By morning, a hysterical seamstress woke the castle. Scraps of precious silk hanged pitifully on the mannequin, and Belle consoled her, suggesting that it must have been the rats.

“Clearly, I cannot get married if I don’t have a dress,” Little Beauty told her father. “I want the new one to be made with sparkling silver, like the stars.”

Upon her request, the staff were quick to do her bidding. More talk flooded the province - it was only fitting that the first gown was destroyed. Silk was too fragile, too simple for one such as their Belle. Now, _silver_ , on the other hand... Yes, a more beautiful, more fitting, material.

Rumplestiltskin himself might have said he was not asking for the stars, but the lady found herself facing the most difficult challenge of her life. What could she possibly offer? After a day to think about it, she realized she didn’t know much about the forest to begin with. That night, when the castle fires went out, Belle packed a lantern, a little book, and crept out under the guise of a long black hood.

Treading the darkness once more, she sought answers, inspecting every gnarled tree and bush. The animals skittered out from their hidey-holes, following Belle’s light as she wandered. After hours of scratching bark and kicking up dirt, there was nothing, no information she could put to use. She filled her little book with notes, but in reality, it was all useless nonsense.

There was no sign of the mischievous caretaker, but she could smell cinnamon.

The lantern light waned, and it was time to return home. As she stepped over the massive roots, climbing over the last log, Belle was surprised to be greeted by the reds and yellows of dawn. Hurrying to the castle, she hoped for a little sleep before continuing her research.

Luckily, no one had noticed her absence. But her good fortune ran out by the following nightfall.

The seamstress returned with a large small, and even larger bags under her eyes. She told the tale of how the previous morning, during Belle’s journey in the Dark Forest, a mysterious benefactor and left Sir Maurice a large parcel of silver, already smelt and molded into one thousand little stars. The parcel was marked with a single note on parchment that read:

_Take these, for your need is greater than mine._

_-R_

Belle fought back her tears as she tried on the new gown, not caring that this one was more beautiful than the last. Each little silver star twinkled and gleamed, and the people were once more preparing the grand wedding.

The gift could have only come from one person, and she still needed answers. The seamstress drifted to sleep on the chaise once more, and Belle threw on her cloak, running outside to the grounds, ignoring everyone’s well wishes and blessings. She told the guards she simply desired a walk through the gardens, and all left her alone. Passing a greenhouse, and forcing her way through the hedgerows, she ran off to the Dark Forest.

Taking off her cloak, she tunneled her way through the blackness, pressing herself against every stump, deliberately scraping every jutting branch. It did not take long for the forest to make work of her dress, and again, when Rumplestiltskin found her, she was in rags.

Without whispers or a show, he simply appeared, sitting on a log. Looking her up and down, taking in the state of her, he giggled.

“Sore loser, are we?” he asked, his fingers twirling in the air.

Belle ran up to him, poking at his chest. “You cheated!”

He scoffed, dropping his jaw and slapping away her hand. Hopping off the log, he strolled through the woods without looking to see if she followed. Trailing the smell of cinnamon, Belle began her tirade.

“Why offer me a deal if you had no plans to hold up your end?”

He did not answer, and she could feel that insufferable smile.

“You are a beast, Rumplestiltskin. A cheat and a liar. You called the deal fair, but -”

“The deal!” He swept out his arm, stopping her short, almost striking her in the chest. The smile shifted to gnashing teeth, and all airs of playfulness were gone.

“The deal,” he snarled “was fair. I never said I was. If you can’t meet the challenge, I suggest you go home and meet your fate.”

The fog returned, the cold rising from their feet. But Belle was not afraid of him, and would not back down now. She had too much at stake.

“Why did you want me here?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Beg your pardon, but _you’re_ the one that dropped in!”

“I meant the cabin,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You could have offered to take me far away, or turn my fiance into a toad, but instead you are giving me a home. Here. With you.

“Why?”

The fog vanished. The cold ceased. And Rumplestiltskin froze. He held up a single, unmoving finger, and audibly swallowed, those speckled eyes widening. Clearly, Belle had struck a point, or, more importantly, a nerve. She smiled, realization dawning.

“You’re lonely. And you’re too cowardly to admit it.”

The fog rose again, thickening, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“I’m giving you one last chance. Until the next dress.”

He snapped his fingers, and she was back in her room.

By morning, the seamstress was nearly at her wit’s end. The dress, her masterpiece, had been destroyed.

“It must have been those rats,” Belle suggested, and the seamstress collapsed into tears. The lady spotted the thread of gold Rumplestiltskin had given, and knew what to ask for next.

Her father commissioned for a new gown, as well as a new dressmaker - one not so exhausted.

“For the last gown, for it will be the last, my daughter wants one spun from gold, to shine like the sun.”

Ah, but of course! Lady Belle was the very brightness and life to their village. And gold, the most precious metal, suited her best. Once the weavers set off to work, Maurice informed she would be married upon the morrow of this gown’s completion, hoping to avoid any mishaps.

Belle was at a loss. Locked away in her library, she read. And read. And read. But found no answers, nor a glimmer of hope. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be; Belle was never meant for more than the life she had now.

A knock at her door; the servants would come and go, trying to get their lady to eat and rest. After all, there was to be a wedding soon, and she needed to be the very picture of health. Reluctantly, she accepted the food platter at the door, but did not allow anyone to come inside.

Idly stabbing at her food with her fork, she continued reading everything she could about flora and fauna. Scrambling her pork and mushrooms, doubt crept in her mind.

A second knock at her door.

Horror of horrors, there the servants stood, with the most beautiful, dazzling, golden gown Belle had ever seen. It was handed to her by what seemed like a hundred eager hands, moving quickly to help her into the gown, the laces bound and tucked before she could say a word.

There was a hush, and there her father stood, proud and beaming, his heart swelling for his daughter.

“The most incredible luck, my Little Beauty,” said Maurice. “This gown was left to you as a wedding present - and it is real gold! Threads and threads of real gold!”

He held her then, and he shook from the effort to not weep with joy. Everything was coming together; his daughter would finally have a happily ever after.

When the servants left, preparing for the grand celebration, Maurice coughed, remembering himself, and released her to remove a small paper square from his chest pocket. He gently placed it in her hand, and gave her the briefest kiss on her cheek before leaving her - to gather herself from all the excitement, surely.

Belle did not need to open the paper to know where it came from. Against her better judgement and good sense, she read it anyway:

_May you never know loneliness._

_-R_

She crumpled the letter, tossing it across the room. That beast had rigged this from the beginning; he never meant for her to win, to come live with him. Why? Why plan this, why toy with her this way? She could not let him win, not this easily. There was still time, wasn’t there?

Memory of his giggling echoed in her mind, and she could not hold back her frustration. Her temper unleashed, she knocked over a chair. And then her books. Parchment flew everywhere, her screams punctuated by their fluttering. She pushed her food tray off the table.

Belle had lost.

Falling to the floor, she pulled in her knees, and thought. This was for the best. She wouldn’t have been happy in the Dark Forest, anyhow. At least here, married to Gaston, she would be near her Papa, and her mother’s books. Looking at her feet, she spotted a mushroom near her toes, and inched forward to kick it away.

But then, the most wonderful thing happened. She smiled.

Night fell. The moon and stars replaced the sun, lighting a small canopy over the impenetrable blanket of the Dark Forest. The castle fell asleep, and for the last time, a beauty in a gorgeous gown flew across the grounds to make her way through the treacherous trees, but not without stopping at her father’s greenhouse, first.

The forest had grown accustomed to Belle’s presence, and cleared a path, leaving herself and her dressed untouched. Her golden train flew behind her, revealing bare feet. Out of breath, she dropped to her knees.

“Rumplestiltskin!” Belle called. “Rumplestiltskin!”

“Come to say goodbye, dearie?” His voice, echoing around her. “I’m touched.”

She smelled the cinnamon, but could not see him. Eyes moving, seeking him out, she smiled still, certain that she was victorious.

“I have your answer,” she gasped, still out of breath, and too excited. A helping hand appeared before her, and she took it, pulling herself to standing.

There Rumplestiltskin stood, no longer frightening in his scaly skin and strange coat of leathers and feathers. Instead, she saw him as a mystery she looked forward to solving.

“A bit too late for that, dearie. And I doubt you have had the time to-”

Belle held up a mushroom, her smile shining brighter than her gown. She dropped it into his hand, and laughed at his grimace. The poor fool looked around, as if there were another person to provide an explanation.

“We struck a deal. I could come live here with you, if I found a need in your forest, and a way to fill it, correct?”

“Until your wedding gown was finished, or did you forget that?”

She twirled, and her joy did not falter. “Oh, this? But this isn’t my wedding gown.”

He laughed at her, shaking his head, but she continued.

“My father hired a woman to make my gown. She has not finished, and now, thanks to you, she never will.”

His eyes widened, and his fingers twitched. He wet his lips with his tongue, but still didn’t speak, allowing her to carry on.

“There is something your forest is lacking. If it weren’t for you, the caretaker, this forest would have never survived without it.”

She reached out, and took his hands, cupping the mushroom. Rumplestiltskin did not know how he missed it before, but the little white cap was glowing a ghostly green.

 

“ _Light_.”

His hands trembled, but she held them still, and the dear creature looked at her, lost in her eyes. Her spirit soared, warmth filling her inside, and for once she could not feel the dratted cold. Rumplestiltskin lowered his eyes, smiling now, but without heart.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Belle.”

What?

“I asked how you would fill a need. Unless you plan on planting and tending every last mushroom yourself, I still have no use for you.”

That damn fog, taunting her, clouded everything, and he slinked away, and she could only just hear him over the pounding of her heartbeat.

“I applaud your effort, but I think you would best be on your way. A bride needs her beauty sleep, after all.”

It could not end like this, not after her hard work and cleverness. And yet, she started to picture her life as Gaston’s wife, raising his children, as she watched Rumplestiltskin walk off alone, undoubtedly waiting for the next desperate soul wanting to strike a deal.

Alone.

She remembered his letter, and knew she still had a chance.

“Rumplestiltskin. Wait.”

The fog receded slightly, but he still walked away.

“Please wait!”

He stopped and she ran to him, piercing into those wide, speckled eyes. He leaned away, making a small noise in his throat, but she came even close, taking his hands.

"Tell me, please,” she begged. “Why did you want me here? Has anyone ever lived here before... or have you always been all alone?”

In the short time Belle had known Rumplestiltskin, he had come off as giddy, devilish, and a little cruel. His hands were always moving, and there was of course that silly giggle he always used. But here, now, with his eyes softened, there was a stillness, a drop in his spirited act.

“There was,” he said. “There was once someone. But I lost them, and they are forever gone.”

“And since then,” she stroked his hair, brown and crinkly, pushing it back behind his ears, “you have had no one but this forest, and this darkness.

“But I have light, Rumplestiltskin.

“Let me be your light.”

* * *

No one knew what happened to Maurice’s Little Beauty. The wedding day came and went, without any side of the bride. Gaston took off, highly insulted, and Maurice was beside himself. The loss of his wife and daughter was finally too much for the old man to bear.

He holed himself up in his room, forbidding anyone to see him. His daughter’s room and library had emptied, overnight, all trace of her gone. The people lamented, unsure of how to go on from this strange turn of events.

Stranger still, the Dark Forest flourished. The trees, formerly twisted and scarred, had greened with moss and flowers. Their canopy opened in tiny patches, and if you looked closely, you could spot beams of sunlight breaking through, bright and promising. The village children were no longer afraid to play nearby, making friends with the tiny creatures meeting the sun for the first time. Cinnamon joined the gentle breezes, and scary stories evolved to little superstitions.

Maurice woke one morning to find a letter, addressed to “Papa,” in a familiar pretty scrawl.

When he opened it, hope returned with the news of a granddaughter.

 

 


End file.
